


Scenario 24

by rideswraptors



Series: Kastle Scenarios [24]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, see first work for tags and warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: “What difference does it make?” he asked, pulling out a book while they waited, bored with the monologuing. “You want her dead. He wants her back. I want him dead. This way we all get what we want.”





	Scenario 24

“She is...much more beautiful than I expected.”

 

“Never saw her picture? Didn’t she work for you?” 

 

Fisk waved him off. “There were so many faces. Wesley handled all the, uh, details before.” 

 

Russo slipped the gloves off his hands. “Thought you were more,” he waggled his fingers, “hands-on than that.” 

 

Fisk looked unimpressed so Russo lifted his hands in defeat and pulled up a chair to wait. The fentanyl would wear off soon enough. Fisk leaned in to look at her, head tilting like a deranged baby bird. Russo didn’t like the guy. He was skeevy, creepy, unhinged. Like the kind of guy who’d lose it if you looked at him the wrong way. But they’d made a deal. And a deal was a deal. 

 

“What is it?”

 

His nose twitched. “I think I understand,” Fisk said slowly, “why Mr. Castle is enamored of her. There’s something...pure about her. A need for truth. Conviction.” 

 

Russo snorted causing Fisk to whip his head in his direction, attention fully on his now. Russo gestured vaguely in her direction. Karen Page’s. Where she sat, limp and sedated. 

 

“Pure’s not Frank’s thing. No offense. But whatever he likes about her, it ain’t pure.”

 

Fisk’s face was completely neutral as he considered him. It was goddamn unnerving is what it was. Too focused. Too blank. It wasn’t natural. Then his eye twitched. 

 

“You’re an...educated man, Mr. Russo,” Fisk said tiredly, “I find it hard to believe that you underestimate your rival so greatly.” 

 

Russo felt his cheek jump, the twitch from his damaged facial nerve not totally gone or under control yet. 

 

“I don’t underestimate Frank. I know him better than anyone.” 

 

Fisk nodded absently, hands behind his back as he walked toward him, “You think so?”

 

Russo frowned. “I know so.” 

 

Fisk tilted his head again, face almost horizontal, eyes peering. 

 

“Why her?”

 

Russo shook his head. “What?” 

 

“Why,” he turned to point at Karen, “why did he pick her? You said this Agent Madani was chasing him for months. He had access to this,” he rolled his wrist, “analyst’s wife who must have born some resemblance to his beloved Maria. I’m sure he encountered a good many female criminals willing to aid his cause, and yet,” he walked back toward Karen, examining, “he chose a secretary.” 

 

Russo shrugged. “She worked for his defense. She helped him. Defended him. They bonded.”

 

“No,” Fisk said quietly, shaking his head, “no. There are a thousand bleeding hearts willing to defend animals for the sake of saving their own souls.” He wagged his finger at Karen. “This one...this one is different.”

 

“What difference does it make?” he asked, pulling out a book while they waited, bored with the monologuing. “You want her dead. He wants her back. I want him dead. This way we all get what we want.” 

 

Fisk scratched at his head harder than necessary for a bald man, turned back around and pointed absently at him. 

 

“Now, now, I’m beginning to understand. You don’t hate Frank Castle. You envy him.” 

 

“I do not--”

 

“You do.” He gestured narrowly. “You can’t even theorize as to why he’d be drawn to such a woman, you just take her to draw him out.” Fisk narrowed his eyes. “You believe his concern for her is a weakness.” 

 

Russo pulled his lips into a thin, tight line, not bothering to answer that question. He didn’t like what the bastard was saying, but he wasn’t stupid enough to mouth off to someone with such an explosive temper. He was startled when the intrigue turned into a wide smile. 

 

“You’re a dangerous man, Mr. Russo. I appreciate that.” 

 

*

 

Frank sat across from the restaurant, listening in on Fisk’s and Russo’s conversation. None of it was very enlightening. Fisk was a psycho, Billy was a cuntbag. Karen was unconscious. 

 

“What do you hear?” he grumbled. Murdock came to a crouch, looking pissed. 

 

“Not much. Typical city buzz. They must be in the basement.”

 

“They are.” 

 

“Sound coming through?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Your guy is good.” 

 

“Yes he is.” He picked up his radio, hit the button. “Kent. Colossus. You ready?” 

 

“All clear Rogers,” Jones muttered across the radio. A small smile pulled on his lips. The superhero code names were Jones’ idea. The salty bitch. “Date night to commence.” 

 

Frank picked up his binoculars to watch Jones and Cage enter the restaurant arm in arm. Back in the van, Trish Walker and Claire Temple were on standby. 

 

“You sure sending them in is a good idea?”

 

“Need eyes inside,” Frank grumbled back. “A distraction. He knows us. Knows Trish. Nurse is civilian. So here we are.” 

 

“We shouldn’t have done this.”

 

“Too late now.” 

 

“We never should have--”

 

Frank held up an impatient hand, stopping his words in his ear. He was waiting for a sound from Karen, something to indicate that she was awake. That she was okay. 

 

“Her choice,” Frank snapped. “Her life, her choice. Now shut up and wait for my signal.” 

 

He pulled up the screen on the tablet Lieberman had given him, dismissing the GPS tracker app he’d had pulled up to follow Karen here. Both Cage and Jones had cameras lined into their clothes so that they had a 360 view of the dining area. He scanned it for entrances, weak spots, openings. Relayed every single one in excruciating detail to Murdock. 

 

Murdock was going in first. Murdock was the distraction. It would confuse Russo long enough to irritate Fisk, and then Frank would go in with Jones and Cage as his cover. Their only mission was to get Karen out. Get her to the van. Get her away from Fisk and Russo. Murdock and Frank would handle them. Murdock got Fisk. Frank got Russo. What happened in that basement would be the end of it. 

 

“ _ Uuugnnghhhh _ ”

 

Karen’s pained moan came over the radio, and Frank had to shut his eyes against it. So different from the sounds in his ear when they were twisted up together in bed, so different from the soft sigh she made when she woke up in the morning and didn’t want to move. Murdock’s hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing. 

 

“We’re getting her back, Frank.”

 

“Stop listening to my vitals.”

 

“Tell your heart to stop being so loud, then.” 

 

Frank swallowed. He’d tell her when he got her back. 

 

He picked up the radio again. “Diana. Cut the power.” 

 

“ _ 3, 2, 1 _ \--Liftoff, Rogers.”

 

The lights in the restaurant went out. They heard some shouting, Murdock reported scuffling, a panic. The manager was going outside to check it out. 

 

“Light ‘em up, Kent.” 

 

Through the windows there was a sharp flash of light, more shouting, then it went dark and quiet again. 

 

“Bodies hit the floor,” Murdock said, strapping on his mask.

 

“That’s your cue, Red.” 

 

Without another word, Murdock was flinging himself over the side of the building, scaling down to enter the restaurant from the front. Jones and Cage would cover him topside and wait for their own signal. While Frank waited his requisite two minutes, he hit the button on his earwig, the one connected to Karen’s. 

 

“We’re coming for you, angel,” he said quietly. Her soft grunt was his response of her consciousness and he brought a hand to his mouth to stop the sob he had to choke back down. “Sit tight. Keep your head. I’m coming for you.” 

 

*

 

In the basement of the restaurant, Karen blinked her eyes open, vision bleary, head foggy. She nearly laughed at the pun. Foggy. Where was Foggy?  _ Oh _ . That was Frank’s voice. He had such a nice voice. Sounded tense though, and she didn’t like that. 

 

_ I’m coming for you _ .

 

She inhaled deeply and allowed her eyes to relax and focus in on her two abductors. Fisk loomed over her, bent at the hip, watching her through narrowed eyes. Russo sat in a chair, feet propped up on the table, book in his hands and looking bored. It was really dark. There was only one dim light. 

 

“Where am I?” she asked, voice thick and groggy. She felt like shit, heavy, weak.

 

“You don’t recognize it, Miss Page?” Fisk asked pleasantly, his voice hiding that rage he was so well known for. “This is where you murdered my dear friend, James Wesley.” 

 

That got her attention. She snapped her eyes open, taking in as many details as she could, ticking off every morbid piece of her recurrent nightmare. Except. Except she was sitting where Wesley sat. She shut her eyes, writhed her limbs against her restraints, and tried to slow her heart rate. Panic wouldn’t help her.  _ I’m coming for you _ .

 

Russo was out of his seat now, gun drawn, pacing, and not paying them a lick of attention. 

 

“You have a sick sense of humor, Mr. Fisk.” 

 

His laugh was loud and hollow, absolutely humorless. Almost like he had no soul inside to express any kind of feeling. Nothing except rage and intensity. He stopped suddenly, like a needle being picked up off the record. No scratch. Smoothly he walked toward her, lifting a gun to her head.

 

“You think this is funny?” 

 

“Fisk!” Russo snapped. “Not yet! He’s not here yet.” But he didn’t seem to hear his accomplice.

 

“You killed my very dear friend,” he informed her evenly.

 

Karen let her head loll to the side. “How many dear friends have you killed, Mr. Fisk? I can name one off the top of my head.” 

 

“Collateral damage,” he shot back. 

 

Karen sneered, lips nearly pulling into a snarl. “So was Wesley.” He pressed the muzzle against her skin and she leaned into it, not letting her eyes waver from his. Not for a second. 

 

“Where’s your security, Fisk?” Russo asked, starting to panic. “If I’d known you couldn’t keep a damn restaurant secure, I would have brought my own team--”

 

“Quiet, Russo!” 

 

“No, you be quiet!” the man shouted back hysterically. “He cut the power. Frank doesn’t cut the power. That’s not his M.O.” 

 

“Obviously you’re wrong,” Fisk mused, eyes still boring into Karen’s. “Mr. Castle must have acquired some partners.”

“No,” Russo said with increasing agitation, “No. Frank works alone.”

 

Karen cackled as Frank’s voice drifted into her ear, soft and deep, telling her to keep her head down. 

 

“We’re  _ never  _ alone.”

 

When Matt came through the door, Russo started firing. Luckily, Matt was faster. Fisk simply sighed, grabbed Karen by the cheek and turned her head sharply to look in her ear. He tugged the earwig out. 

 

“And here I thought he was supposed to be a professional.”

 

Karen let out a snort when Jessica, Luke, and Frank came through the door. Luke first, deflecting bullets like it was nothing. Fisk sighed again and aimed his gun right at Karen’s temple. 

 

“I think that’s quite enough,” Fisk drawled. Jessica had incapacitated Russo and was tying him up. Luke stood in front of her. Matt and Frank flanked them, eyes focused on their target. 

 

“Four of you. For one woman. Seems extreme.” Matt took a step forward and Fisk tapped her head with the gun, making her shudder. “Nuh uh, Mr. Murdock. I’m in no mood to play games with you.”

 

“Nowhere for you to go, Fisk,” Frank snapped. 

 

Fisk tipped his head. “Hardly a fair fight.” 

 

“You let them take Ms. Page, and it’s just you n’ me. One to one.” 

 

Fisk clicked his tongue. “I’m  _ disappointed _ in you Mr. Castle. After everything we’ve been through, this is how you thank me?” 

 

“You let me out, that’s fine. I didn’t ask you to. But Ms. Page?” He shook his head. “That’s another story.”

 

“Let her go, Fisk,” Matt ground out. Karen held her breath, tried to keep still in the face of the pissing contest happening right in front of her. Then Luke stepped forward, not hesitating when Fisk pushed the muzzle against her skull. 

 

“Easy, big fella--”

 

“You shoot her, he shoots you. That how you want this to go, Mr. Fisk?” He didn’t even flinch when Fisk pistol-whipped him right across the face. Didn’t even bleed.

 

“Well isn’t that interesting.”

 

“Not for you, it ain’t.” Luke reached forward, took the gun from his hands and tossed it to Jessica who unloaded and bent it in half.

 

“ _ Very _ interesting.” 

 

Luke put a hand to Fisk’s chest, knocking him backward and out of Jessica’s way. She came to undo Karen’s restraints, picked her up bridal style to carry her out. Karen went all too willingly because she still couldn’t feel her feet and she felt extremely dizzy. Luke followed them, a moving shield to keep anything hinky from happening during their exit. Karen tried to protest a little, wanted to call out to Frank. 

 

“Leave ‘em to it, Karen,” Luke said gently. “They got this.” 

 

She shot one last look at Frank and Matt before they reached the top of the stairs. They were flanking Fisk, Russo struggled against his restraints on the floor. She wanted Frank to look at her. Take his eyes off Fisk. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not until one or both of them of them was dead. 

 

Jessica and Luke took her through the upstairs dining room, stepping over unconscious bodies, navigating the dark space to get to the door. Some of the people were patrons of the restaurant, some were employees, but there were some with guns in their hands, big looking. They were probably Anvil. Or else belonged to Fisk. 

 

“Get her to Claire,” Luke said, voice hushed. “I’ll start moving people out.”

 

“Be back,” Jessica told him. 

 

Karen shook her head to focus. “Moving people out?”

 

“Shh, Blondie. Your part’s done. Just relax.” Jessica brought them to a black van parked two blocks away. Frank’s van, she thought dumbly. The back door opened to reveal Claire and Trish, waiting to get Karen onto the cot laid out in the back. They got her settled and Jessica disappeared, leaving Karen to Claire’s whims. She took her vitals, checked her reflexes, hooked her up to what looked like a saline solution, and then proceeded to look over her body for other wounds. 

 

“Frank won’t like that,” Claire murmured. Trish moved around to see what Claire was referring to, only to wince and hiss at the sight. 

 

“Damn. That looks nasty.” 

 

Claire pressed against Karen’s ribs, and she whimpered at the pressure. The pain was numb, but it was present; she was just too far away from it. She curved her neck to get a look at it. Mottled purple and red, in the shape of curved shoe prints. A memory flashed through the front of her mind; getting pulled into an alley, hit over the head, kicked over and over and over tunil she thought she would puke.

 

“Got jumped,” she rasped. “Wasn’t expecting that.” 

 

“Probably tried to make it look like a mugging,” Trish mused. “People wouldn’t pay attention.”

 

“Not broken. Just banged up.”  

 

“Best hope Frank never finds ‘em,” Trish said regardless.

 

Karen inhaled deeply when Claire released the pressure, it smarted. She rubbed a salve on it and continued looking. Karen was pretty sure she wouldn’t find anything else. Not that she could remember anything else. 

 

They’d planned for this. Karen had been wired for two weeks, on high alert, waiting for their attack. She’d gone on the air with Trish and several news outlets addressing the issue of Frank Castle and New York’s vigilantes specifically. Each time, she made sure to emphasize her connection to Frank, to point out that those under his protection were safe. She had to re-establish that they had a bond. Yes, people did accuse her of Stockholm Syndrome, which Frank thought was pretty funny. Karen did not. That wasn’t really surprising, though. Very few people shared her opinions on Frank Castle. They also put the word on the street that Karen was responsible for James Wesley’s death. Just whispers, nothing that could implicate her to the police. But there it was. 

 

Now, they hadn’t expected Russo and Fisk to team up. That was unexpected. They just thought Fisk would gun for Karen, and didn’t give much thought to Russo at all. Her publicity had drawn him out, obviously. Given him some direction on how to get back at Frank. Clearly, it hadn’t worked well. 

 

Jessica and Luke came back some 30 minutes later, looking tired but none the worse for wear. Quick behind them was Matt, who needed stitching up, and Frank, who refused. There was a gash on his face and injuries who knew where else. He took one look at Karen, sitting up and alert, and then held his hand out to Trish. She handed him a red canister.

 

“You sure about this?” 

 

“Needs to look like a mob hit.” 

 

With that, he shut the door. Before Karen could even say anything. Or anyone could stop him.

 

Frank was gone for ten excruciating minutes. Karen knew because she counted every second, watching Claire clean and stitch up Matt injuries. He looked pretty bad, which was unsurprising. Fisk was no joke in a fist fight. 

 

“Are they dead?” Karen croaked out, eyes firmly on Matt. He looked directly at her, eyes unseeing but taking her in. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And if they’re not,” Luke added, “they will be.” 

 

“Good riddance,” Trish said roughly, pushing her way to the front and throwing herself in the driver’s seat. 

 

Karen couldn’t exactly disagree.

 

Still, she was surprised when a bright flash of light caught her attention from the back window. She got up, despite protests, and opened the door, only to reel back when there was another bang coming from the direction of the restaurant. Karen found herself walking in that direction, completely ignoring her friends behind her, eyes locked on the building. 

 

It was up in flames. Smoke poured through open vents and windows, the dining room was lit ablaze, burning up furiously. She held her breath, eyes wide, and didn’t release it until Frank pushed through the front door, tossing the empty canister inside. He stopped only to chain the door shut, hands covered by gloves. Karen stopped short when he turned and saw her. 

 

He looked like Death itself. Covered head to toe in black, white skull blazing from his vest, face shadowed by his hood, flames shooting up behind him. Any rational person would have been terrified, would have reconsidered every choice they’d made, turned and run. Karen did none of those things because all she felt was relief. She barely processed that he was quickly making his way to her until she was wrapped up in his arms, being guided back to the van. She clung to him, unthinkingly, let herself be passed up into the back of the van yet again, and immediately went back to the circle of his arms when he was seated and the doors firmly shut behind them. 

Frank knocked on the side panel twice, and Trish started the van, pulled into the street, and they were gone. 

 

Karen didn’t pay attention to any of it. Didn’t listen to the conversation around her. Didn’t look to see where they were going. She just leaned into Frank, using his shoulder as a pillow, and sunk into the comfort of his arm around her. She felt his hand splayed along her good ribs, felt his chin near the top of her head, felt the rumble of his low voice emanating from his chest. She still felt hazy and heavy, and his whole person was lulling her right back to sleep.  

 

*

 

All of the Defenders in the back of Frank’s van watched Karen move back into a state of semi-unconsciousness. A restful one this time. Peaceful. She looked very comfortable pressed against Frank’s side, though her fingers clenched in his vest bespoke lingering panic. Which was unsurprising. 

 

“Does she know?” Jones asked quietly. 

 

“How could she?” Claire chimed in, putting her medical kit supplies back into their rightful places. “They put her out cold.” 

 

“Maybe we should--” Murdock started. Frank shut him down flat.

 

“I’ll tell her,” he interrupted, not even allowing that train of thought. Karen wouldn’t stand for it, so neither would he. 

 

“She’ll find out soon enough,” Luke said, very obviously to Murdock who was looking miffed about the whole thing. Who gave a shit what he thought anyway? Frank scowled and pressed his lips into Karen’s hair. Her breathing was steady and even now. She didn’t seem as small and limp as she had in that basement. It was something of a relief. After catching sight of her from the top of the stairs, he hadn’t been able to look at her, not once, while they dealt with Fisk. He knew if he did, he would lose it. This wasn’t like with Lewis. She’d been armed, free to move, conscious and alert. Seeing Karen, knowing she was unable to defend herself, had sparked a dark, primal rage in him. Had him seeing red faster than he ever had before. If he’d looked at her even once, he would have killed every single person in that basement just to pacify his own anger. Frank hadn’t lost control like that in a while. He didn’t want to do it in front of Murdock, of all fucking people. He didn’t want to do it in front of Karen either. 

 

Trish dropped him and Karen off at his safehouse in Queens, where they’d stay until the investigation blew over. He gave her instructions to his alternate place in Brooklyn, told them all to stay low until he got word to them. They were all looking at him as he talked, looking at Karen. He licked his lips, moved and irritated and wishing he was the guy he was even 5 years ago instead of the sack of shit he’d become.

 

“Be safe, watch your backs,” he told them in earnest. Then he shut the door, hit it once, and watched them drive away. Karen leaned bodily into him, able to stand, but obviously still a little unsteady. Once they were clear, Frank helped her inside, got them into the elevator and into the studio apartment he’d rented under an identity Micro made up for him. 

 

Her knee buckled once they were through the door, so Frank picked her up, took her over to lie down on the bed. 

 

“Shit,” she grumbled, “sorry.” 

 

“Don’t be. Roughed you up pretty good.” 

 

She reached up to brush a thumb just under his cheekbone. He was always getting hit in the face. 

 

“Got you, too,” she said gently. He picked up her hand and kissed the palm. 

 

“M’fine. You wanna sleep or clean up?” 

 

“Both. Neither.” 

 

He lifted his brows. “Narrows it down.” Karen dropped her head down to his pillow.  “Rest first,” Frank said, snagging a blanket from the end of the bed. Karen reached for his hand, holding it. 

 

“Frank, I remember--I was with Gretchen,” she said slowly, her voice dropping off to a whisper. 

 

He bit his lips before he nodded. “Yeah, honey,” he sat on the side of the bed, “yeah you were.” 

 

Her face flushed a hot red before the tears slipped from the corners of her eyes to her cheeks. Frank went to brush them away, but Karen pushed his hands from her face. Shaking her head, covering it with her hands. She let out a sob that broke his heart. 

 

“ _ She was twenty-three _ ,” she whispered, voice utterly broken. Her body went rigid as the sobs wracked through her. Frank kept his hands on her, open and waiting, until she turned and fell toward him, crying so hard she probably couldn’t breathe. Frank, having enough, hauled her into his lap, pulled her close while she cried. He couldn’t stop the few stray tears that slipped down his own cheeks. He knew what it felt like to have innocents caught up in your war. There was no way around it but through it. Not telling her, delaying the inevitable, cut would’ve cut her off at the knees. 

 

Frank didn’t try to quiet her, just held her there, in his bed. 

 

“It’s not over,” she said finally, voice thick with tears. “It’ll never be over. Someone’s always gonna be coming for us.” 

 

“We’ll keep moving.” 

 

“For how long?” she asked, sighing tiredly. She twisted her head to look up at him. “How many more people are gonna die because of me?” 

 

Frank brought a hand to her chin, holding it firmly so that she couldn’t look away or misunderstand.

 

“That girl didn’t die because of you. She died because of Fisk and Russo. She died because their thugs decided to put a bullet in her chest.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Look at me, Karen. Look at me.” Her eyes flew open, glassy and unfocused. “They made a choice--”

 

“We drew them out,” she shot back stubbornly.

 

“And that was their choice. Fisk targeted you. He was always going to target you. If it hadn’t been Gretchen, it would have been somebody else. Maybe Trish or Jones or Murdock or me. Or any one of a hundred other people who exist around you. That’s what he did. He used violence and fear to gain power. He was going to torture you. He was going to make you watch Russo torture and kill me, and if you think that’s not the case then you’re lying to yourself. Taking that girl’s life meant nothing to those people. To Fisk or Russo. They would have killed a dozen Gretchens to get to you.” 

 

“I know.”

 

“So mourn her. And let it go. Because the men who killed her are dead, and there’s nothing left to do but bury her.” 

 

“Frank--” she whispered on a sob. 

 

“I know, honey, I know,” he told her as he gathered her up close to him again, rocking her while she kept crying. 

  
  



End file.
